


In the Next Breath

by Sarahtoo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Don't panic, F/M, I'm not that mean, this is not mis-tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9660338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo
Summary: Phryne is at home when word comes that something has happened to Jack.





	

Phryne would always remember where she was when she heard the news. Mr. Butler had let the constable in; she’d risen from where she’d been sitting in the parlor as the rather nervous young man came forward, his round-topped helmet under his arm. He had red hair, she noted as she gave him an easy smile.

“I’m Phryne Fisher-Robinson,” she said, her smile warm. “How can I help you, constable…?”

“Jenkins, ma’am,” he replied, shifting from foot to foot. 

He had freckles across his nose, she saw, and his cheeks were reddened. He really did seem very uneasy.

Constable Jenkins cleared his throat. “Um, I… I’m very sorry to inform you, ma’am, that… that Inspector Jack Robinson was killed this afternoon in the line of duty.” The words rushed out of him like a speeding train, and he let out a heavy breath once they’d left his lips.

When they sunk in, all of the breath left Phryne’s lungs, as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She felt the blood drain from her head, and she staggered, reaching out for the chair she’d just vacated as her knees buckled. She sat down, hard, her eyes never leaving the young constable’s stricken blue gaze.

“Wh-what?” Phryne could barely hear her own voice over the roaring in her ears. The constable was still talking, but she couldn’t hear him. Her mind was full of images of Jack—the day he’d come to London, appearing without notice in a pouring rainstorm. She’d laughed in delight because she’d missed him so, and then dragged him upstairs to dry off. She’d warmed him with her body, their lovemaking both tender and urgent after so long apart and so long a wait. 

She blinked, barely registering Mr. Butler as he came to stand beside her, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. She was seeing Jack the day he’d moved into Wardlow, after they’d gone away for a weekend and found a registrar who was willing to marry them. He’d abstained from lifting her over the threshold, opting to shag her standing instead, saying, “I’m not here to carry you, I’m here to stand beside you.” The words had made her pleasure even sweeter.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. She could see Jack in the garden, the sun shining down on him in his scruffy canvas trousers and open-necked shirt, dirt up to his elbows and beyond, smiling at her as she carried her packages in through the kitchen door. Jack in the library, his long legs crossed as he lounged in the high-backed chair he’d brought from his bungalow, a Zane Grey novel on his knee. Jack in the kitchen, teaching Jane to make his secret-recipe Anzac biscuits.

She blinked again, realizing that she was shaking her head. “No. It can’t be. It can’t!” Her voice cracked on the last word; her hand flew up to cover her mouth and she turned her head away. 

“I’m… I’m very s-s-sorry for your loss, ma’am,” the young man said, his voice trembling.

Phryne dragged in a ragged breath, her hand moving to cover her eyes as she struggled to fill her lungs with air. There were no tears— _yet_ —but not for any lack of feeling. She knew that the tears would come, and when they did, they would be devastating.

_Jack. My Jack._

She remembered this feeling from when Janey had gone missing—her skin was too tight for her body, constricting her lungs and her stomach; there was an ache in her chest as if her heart was being squeezed in a vise. Her head swam, and when she dropped her hand from her eyes, she could see Dot’s concerned face, black spots swimming through her field of vision. _Ha, dots on Dot._ The thought made her huff out a laugh, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified.

“It’s all right, miss,” Dot was saying. “Breathe. Just breathe.” Dot had covered Phryne’s other hand with her own, and her face was streaked with tears.

Phryne swallowed. She was supposed to be the strong one. She had managed to hold her family together after Janey had disappeared, and herself together once Janey had been found… but no, Jack had been here, helping her then. But she had managed to get away from Rene, and to fight him off when he’d—no, Jack had been there for that too. Rolling her lips together between her teeth, she bit down, closing her eyes and focusing on the pinch of pain. She could be strong, and she _would_ be... just as soon as she fell apart. 

With a sob, she opened her eyes and surged to her feet again, hand still over her mouth, sickness roiling. She pushed past the young constable and through the doors of the parlor, only to stop short as Jack stepped through the front door.

“Hello, love,” he said, his voice with its deep rumble the same as it had always been. He hung his hat on the hall tree, his movements confident with the ease of long practice, and shrugged out of his overcoat to hang it up as well. Turning to her, his tired eyes fixed on her face, and he seemed to realize that something was terribly wrong. 

“Phryne?” He stepped closer to her, his hands coming up to cup her upper arms. “What’s wrong?”

“Jack?” Her hand dropped limply to her side, his name leaving her in a breath that barely qualified as sound.

“What is it, darling?” He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, his eyes searching hers, and the warm familiarity of his palm seemed to flip a switch within her.

Phryne let out a sob, tears flooding her eyes, and threw her arms around his neck. She heard the soft “oof” that left his body as she flung herself at his chest; felt his arms wrap around her. She buried her face in his neck, taking great gulps of Jack-scented air—her skin fit again, her lungs filled with ease, but the ache in her chest was still throbbing as if it was a bruise. She felt Jack turn to face the parlor.

“What’s going on, Mr. Butler?” His voice—his beautiful, beloved voice—vibrated against her, even as his hands stroked her back in an attempt to calm her.

“Sir,” Mr. Butler’s calm voice was low and soothing, “we were just informed that you’d been killed on the job.”

“Jenkins? What the hell do you mean by this?” Jack’s voice was hard, angry, but his hands were gentle, and Phryne’s arms tightened around him.

“Sir, I… I-I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know!” Jenkins’ voice had risen in the realization of his error, and he stammered out his explanation. “Th-there was a clash, s-sir, between gangs down by the foreshore, and the body—it… the man’s warrant card said that he—you—was named Inspector Jack Robinson. The morgue attendant was very clear on that, and as he called City South, I—we—we thought…”

Phryne felt it as Jack tensed, his hand on her back stilling for a moment before beginning to stroke again. 

“Damn.” The word was quiet, spoken against her hair. Phryne had mostly managed to get her tears under control, and she lifted her head to look at him. Jack tilted his head at her, his eyes sad; he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped her eyes with it.

“Jack?” Phryne’s voice was hoarse—she was holding her Jack, but there might be another woman out there whose Jack would never come home. Her hand lifted to feather lightly against the short hairs at the back of his neck.

“Detective Inspector—not Senior Detective Inspector—Jack Robinson worked out of City Central. I met him a few times at official functions, but we rarely crossed paths. We had a chuckle because of our names, but it never occurred to me that something like this could happen.” He cupped Phryne’s cheek again and shook his head. “I’m so sorry, darling. I never thought…”

Phryne looked into his face, her eyes tracing its lines and angles, and swallowed hard; when she spoke, her voice was almost normal. “I’m just thankful that it was a mistake. That you’re here with me.” She slid her hand around to cup his jaw, felt it working as he tried to master his own feelings.

Jack met her eyes and nodded, the motion small and contained. He blinked, slow and deep, and sighed. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, and Phryne’s eyes fluttered shut while his warm lips met her skin, then opened as he squeezed her waist and took a step back.

He looked over at Jenkins, his expression hard. Phryne moved to stand beside him, wrapping her hands around his arm. She couldn’t quite bring herself to let him go, it seemed.

“Sir,” Jenkins’ voice was hardly more than a whisper. “What… what should I do?”

“First, go back to City South and inform the men that I am not dead, that I am going to stay here to reassure my family of that fact, and that I will be in tomorrow morning.” Jack’s voice was firm, but not angry. “Then you need to get a positive identification on the man who was killed—emphasis on _positive_ , Jenkins—and contact City Central. They will likely want to be the ones to notify his next of kin.”

“Yes, sir!” Jenkins moved toward the door, clearly ready to carry out his DI’s orders.

“Jenkins,” Jack’s voice stopped the young man in his tracks. 

“Sir?” Jenkins, his hand on the front door, turned an inquiring gaze to Jack.

“I believe you owe my wife an apology.” Jack leveled a look on the young man—hardly more than a boy, really, Phryne thought—and Jenkins swallowed hard. 

With a nod, the young constable turned to face Phryne.

“I am deeply sorry, ma’am, for my error,” he said, his voice and eyes telegraphing his sincerity, “and for any grief it caused.”

Phryne nodded carefully. She would eventually be able to forgive the mistake, and the bearer of the erroneous news, but the pain of it was still too fresh in her memory.

“I am very pleased that it was misinformation, constable,” she said coolly, giving Jack’s bicep a slight squeeze. Jenkins swallowed again, and nodded, before turning to let himself out.

“Oh miss,” Dot breathed from the doorway to the parlor, where she stood next to Mr. Butler. “Inspector, I’m so happy that you’re here, and alive!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Collins,” Jack said with a slight smile. “I’ll admit to some relief on that front myself.”

The telephone began to ring then, and Mr. Butler moved to answer it. Phryne looked up at Jack, who met her eyes again and lifted a hand to rub his thumb along her cheekbone.

“You all right?” His voice was low and warm.

“I am now,” she murmured in reply, laying her head against his shoulder. She raised her head again at Mr. Butler’s voice. 

“Dorothy, it’s for you,” he said, turning to Dot with his hand over the telephone’s mouthpiece. “It’s Constable Collins—I think he heard the incorrect news as well.”

“Oh no!” Dot moved forward to take the handset and reassure her husband that his boss was hale and hearty.

“Dinner will be served in just about an hour, miss, sir,” Mr. Butler said, turning to his employers. “And may I say that I’m also very relieved that you’re safe and well, inspector?”

“Thank you, Mr. Butler.” Jack looked away from Phryne to smile at the older man, his hand falling from Phryne’s face.

“Yes, thank you, Mr B,” she said, turning to face him without letting go of Jack’s arm. She met Dot’s eyes as the younger woman hung up the phone. “You go on, Dot; I imagine Hugh needs you. I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”

Dot nodded and bustled off toward the kitchen to gather her things, her hand sweeping down Phryne’s arm as she passed. Mr. Butler followed her, leaving Phryne and Jack alone in the entryway.

“Come upstairs, Jack,” Phryne said, turning back to look at her husband. “I feel the need to reassure myself that you are alive and well and here with me.”

Jack’s eyes crinkled down at her, the corners of his mouth turning slightly downward before they curved up in a smile, creasing his cheeks. 

“Lead the way, Miss Fisher,” he replied, and the sound of that name—only he called her _Miss Fisher_ in just that way—made her catch her breath, her eyes welling again. 

She tugged at his hand, blinking back tears even as she led him up to their bedroom. She rather thought that it would take quite a bit of reassurance before she’d be willing to let him out of her sight.

Moving up the stairs, even with his hand in hers, Phryne kept turning to look at him. It had been such a terrifying moment, thinking he was gone, and she found that she needed the reassurance of his face. He noticed, of course. He would.

“Phryne,” he said quietly, his voice rippling across her skin, “I’m right here.” He squeezed the hand she still held and set his other on her hip, crowding against her as they climbed.

“My mind knows it, Jack,” she whispered, “but my heart keeps stuttering.” She pulled him through the door to their room and pulled her hand from his, only to catch him around the neck. “I lost you, if only for a little while, and it was… it was more than I could bear.” She let out a shuddering sigh as Jack wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck.

She rose on her toes to hold him, her whole body pressed to his, for long moments. Jack rocked her slightly as she breathed him in, reassuring herself that he was here and whole.

“All I could think was that I’d have to go on without you,” she said, her lips against his neck, his scent filling her lungs. “And I don’t think I could do it.”

“Nonsense,” he replied, lifting his head to press a kiss to her temple. “You are the most capable person I know. You would have managed, though I’m pleased that you won’t have to, for more than one reason.” He ducked his head to meet her eyes and invite her to smile with him at the small joke.

But Phryne didn’t smile—she couldn’t, yet. Instead, she lifted a hand to his face and examined him minutely, her eyes cataloging the angle of his jaw, the slight upturn of his straight nose, and the crinkles at the edges of his eyes. He was beautiful to her in a way that continually surprised her.

“I forget, in the day to day,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the curve of his cheek and feathering against his long lashes when he blinked. “How important you are.”

“Then I’ll just have to keep reminding you, won’t I?” Jack leaned in to kiss her, his lips tender and gentle. 

At the touch of his mouth, Phryne moaned, and suddenly she was on fire, needing to feel his skin against hers. She kissed him wildly, her tongue sliding into his mouth even as her hands pushed his jacket off of his shoulders and began working at his tie. Jack grunted, then moved to help, his fingers nimble on his cuffs. When she’d undone his tie, she dropped her hands to his waistcoat, her mouth never leaving his; his hands joined hers, working at the buttons of his shirt, his jacket still hanging around his elbows. 

Phryne’s hands stroked over the warm skin of Jack’s shoulders beneath his shirt, her mouth still on his. She wanted his hands on her skin, his mouth on hers, his cock inside her. Whimpering his name, she pushed his upper layers off, the jacket and waistcoat dropping to the floor with a light thump, the shirt—his tie still around the collar—tangling in his braces to hang behind him.

Jack broke their kiss, breathing hard, to strip out of his undershirt, and Phryne did the same, lifting her gauzy blouse and camisole over her head in one smooth motion. She took a step back, stepping out of her shoes and unfastening the hooks at the side of her wide-legged trousers. Jack mirrored her actions, undoing his own trousers and shunting them down his hips as he toed off his shoes.

Wordlessly, Phryne stripped to the skin, then sat on the bed and pushed herself across to lie prone. Jack followed, his own layers lying forgotten and scattered on the floor. He laid himself over her, his warm weight solid and real and so very welcome that Phryne felt tears prick her eyelids again. She wrapped one arm around his chest and her legs around his waist, pulling him closer; her other hand slid down his body to place his cock at her entrance. She was wet, but not dripping, so when he pushed inside, there was more resistance than they were used to. Jack tried to pull away, one hand moving as if to stroke her into readiness, but Phryne shook her head. She didn’t care—she wanted him this close.

“No, Jack, it’s all right. I want to feel you—it doesn’t hurt.” She looked into his eyes, their deep blue concern a balm to her still-shocked senses. 

“Are you sure?” Jack’s murmur came even as he began to move within her. He placed his forearms on the bed, cupping his hands beneath her shoulders; Phryne nodded, her own hands on his back spreading to feel his muscles flex as he thrust.

He dipped his head to kiss her again, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips, and Phryne moaned at the dual penetration. Hitching one leg higher, she laid her calf along the small of his back, and Jack’s thrusts became deeper. Her body had loosened, and he was sliding slickly inside her now.

“More, Jack,” she said, her head dropping away from his, “harder!”

In response, he propped himself up on his hands, lifting his chest away from hers. Phryne bent her knee, opening herself wider to him, and her hands slid down to bracket his hips. She felt him gather himself as he paused, buried deep within her. 

“I love you,” he grated out, pulling one knee up. “I love you so much.” 

And then he began to move, slinging his hips against her, his long, powerful motions dragging his cockhead against her walls. Phryne gasped as each stroke bottomed out inside her, his testicles slapping at the soft flesh on the underside of her ass. Her hands curled, her fingernails biting into the flesh of his buttocks. 

She chanted his name with each thrust, and when he flagged, she gathered him close, kissing him deeply even as she rolled them. When she was above him, she didn’t sit up; instead, she cupped his head, her fingers delving into his hair as she continued to kiss him. Jack’s hands roamed her body, squeezing her bottom as she rocked against him, then stroking up her back and around her ribcage to cup her breasts. Phryne lifted her chest slightly to give him access without breaking their kiss. His fingers, sure of what she liked, pressed and pinched and pulled at her nipples until the motions of her hips became more frantic and she was no longer kissing him but resting her forehead against his, their mouths open.

“Jack,” she gasped, “my Jack.” 

“Always yours,” he rumbled, “always.”

At his words, Phryne came, her stomach clenching and a wail of pleasure falling from her throat into his mouth. Her orgasm triggered Jack’s—with a groan, he rolled her again, pulling out to spend himself against her thigh, his mouth dipping to cover hers again. Phryne’s hands fisted in his hair as she kissed him back, loving the jerking of his hips and the hot jet of his pleasure.

“I love you, Jack Robinson, my Jack,” she whispered, when she could speak—it was the only thing she wanted to say. His name in her mouth felt like a blessing, a benediction on herself. He was here, he was alive, and he was hers.

Jack buried his face in her neck again, his lips brushing her throat. “I’m here, Phryne. Right here.”

“And I’m thankful for it,” she replied, turning her head to press a kiss to his hair, her hands stroking his neck and the short, soft hairs at the base of his skull. 

They lay together quietly, entwined, for long minutes, Phryne still unwilling to let him move away. She could feel herself settling, the winged panic that had been trapped in her chest at the thought of losing him lessening its frantic flapping. Finally, with a sigh, she slid an arm down his back, her hand spread wide against his skin.

“I suppose we should wash up for dinner,” she said quietly, and Jack raised his head. His eyes were sleepy, and his smile was soft.

“Shall I run a bath?” His hand swept down her side to cup her hip as he propped himself up.

“Mmm,” she slid her hand up his side to grasp his shoulder from behind, “Perhaps after we eat? I think a bath would be wonderful, but I imagine it’d make us late to the table.” Her smile was small, but it was there.

“Good point. Remember what happened the last time?” Jack’s smile turned wicked, and his hand wandered until his fingers could slide between her legs. 

Phryne’s chuckle was more than half gasp, and she bent her knee to give him more room.

“That was not my fault. I had no idea you were ticklish th—ooh, there…” Her eyes met his, and she loved the twinkle in them almost more than she loved what his fingers were doing.

“We definitely shouldn’t rush it,” he said, his smile turning wicked as she felt herself unravel. “Perhaps just a quick washing up now,” Phryne mewled as he twisted his fingers just so, “and then a bath later.” 

With a soft cry, Phryne tipped over the edge, her orgasm washing softly through her. As it ebbed, she looked at Jack’s now-smug smile and laughed.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary!”

“Well, I haven’t _yet_ , Miss Fisher, but I’m happy to attempt it.” He leaned in to kiss her mouth, his lips gentle. “But first?”

“Mmm?” Phryne’s eyes, which had fallen closed as he kissed her, opened halfway. Her body was lax with release, and her fingers absently stroked his hair.

“Dinner!” Jack pushed up, making the bed bounce as he got to his feet. “Come on, lazybones,” he said, taking her hands to pull her to her feet, then over to the washstand. “Let’s get you cleaned up so that we can eat… food, Miss Fisher,” he said, his tone chiding as she sent him a sideways glance.

“Of course, Jack,” she replied, her smile wry as she took a clean flannel and wet it to clean herself. “Far be it from me to stand between a hungry man and his dinner.” She glanced at him; he had already finished his own toilette, and was stepping into his smalls, his shirt on and hanging open. He hadn’t bothered with an undershirt, and his strong chest was on display. Nude, she strolled over to him, placing her hands on his pectoral muscles.

“And then, after dinner, we’ll have that bath,” she purred, her fingernails lightly scraping his nipples.

“I look forward to it,” he rumbled. 

Phryne pushed up on her toes to press a quick kiss to his mouth before moving past him to gather up her clothing. Jack was here and alive and whole, and that was enough, really. That was not to say that she no longer planned to reassure herself of his vitality this evening. Her lips curved in a smile. If she had her way, she’d reassure herself more than once. 


End file.
